


it is what it is

by jacksqueen16



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Comfort, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Episode: s04e02 The Lying Detective, Forehead Kisses, Hugs, Implied Relationships, John Loves Sherlock, Johnlock - Freeform, M/M, Mary's ghost, Sherlock Loves John, Unrequited Love, these two idiots
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-01-09
Updated: 2017-01-09
Packaged: 2018-09-16 12:22:29
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 697
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9271193
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/jacksqueen16/pseuds/jacksqueen16
Summary: He doesn’t remember setting down his cup, or standing, or even moving toward John. He only knows that John Watson, the resilient soldier, the stalwart doctor, his conductor of light and his best friend—his first, his truest friend, the only person in the world—needs him.An extended scene from "The Lying Detective" aka what really happened during that hug.





	

**Author's Note:**

  * For [TC (thecollective)](https://archiveofourown.org/users/thecollective/gifts).



> I can't stop thinking about Sherlock comforting John. 
> 
> This was written in 10 minutes, at work, on the fly, without a beta. All errors are mine. I don't own Sherlock, but Sherlock owns me.

The room is silent, save for the echoes of John’s confession ringing in Sherlock’s ears.

He doesn’t remember setting down his cup, or standing, or even moving toward John. He only knows that John Watson, the resilient soldier, the stalwart doctor, his conductor of light and his best friend—his first, his truest friend, the only person in the world—needs him.

This is what people do, isn’t it?

He’s never embraced John before.

But then, John’s never cried like this before. John’s never lost a wife before, been torn to shreds before, been fragile before.

He realizes this as he puts his arms around his former flatmate, his hand trembling as it cups the back of John’s neck. John has hugged him in the past, but brief and swift, the way mates hug, with a pat on the shoulder to keep it manly, platonic, unemotional.

The tears keep coming. They seep through John’s fingers, to the front of Sherlock’s shirt, dampening his skin beneath. He wonders if he should pull away, give John space. John isn’t returning the embrace. He’s just standing there, crying, his head against Sherlock’s chest.

“Don’t you dare,” comes the voice that’s been in the back of his mind for weeks now. He glances at the image of Mary. She’s standing by the front door, arms crossed. “Don’t you dare let him go.”

Sherlock takes a breath.

“It’s okay.”

“It’s not okay.” John’s voice is small and broken, and it tears Sherlock up from the inside out.

“No,” Sherlock admits. He holds John more tightly. “But it is what it is.”

John takes a shuddering, hesitant breath. “And what is it?”

Sherlock looks at Mary again. “Go on then,” she encourages.

“It’s…” Sherlock tilts his head down, his lips against John’s silver-blond hair. He speaks into the silky strands, memorizing the way they feel against his mouth. “It’s the end of one life and the beginning of another.”

John’s body stiffens.

Has he gone too far? Sherlock isn’t certain. Do people not say that sort of thing? He looks to Mary, but she’s gone.  

He wants to pull away. No, scratch that. He doesn’t want to, but he has to. He’s made John uncomfortable, he’s certain of it. He begins to loosen his hold, to lift his face from John’s soft hair. The ache that’s been in his chest for months on end is pressing against his heart, an anvil on his tender flesh. It will be easier for him to let John go than to see John wrench himself away. He doesn’t think he’d survive that, not a second time.

He’d never truly understood how much it hurts to love someone.

Then John shifts, but not away from him. The tears have lessened, and John burrows further into Sherlock’s embrace, his arms coming to rest around Sherlock’s back. Without his hand covering his eyes, his cheek is pressed against Sherlock’s chest.

Sherlock can’t help but notice that they fit together, like a jigsaw puzzle. He lets his chin rest on John’s head and closes his eyes.

“It is what it is,” John whispers. It’s so low that Sherlock almost doesn’t catch it, but for the heat of John’s breath against him, the low vibration that courses through his entire body.

“Go on,” comes Mary’s voice.

Sherlock opens his eyes.

“I’ll give you permission if that’s what you want, you wanker.” She’s right next to him for the briefest of moments, and he can practically smell her perfume. There’s a trace of laughter in her voice, tainted with sadness. Then she’s gone again, a dream within a dream.

John exhales. “Sherlock, I...I’m sorry for what I did. For what I said and how I...I didn’t mean to…” His voice is firmer now, closer to the John he knows.

“It’s fine,” Sherlock murmurs.

“It’s not fine,” John’s arms tighten. His hands grip Sherlock’s dressing gown, fingers grasping at him like a drowning man. “Stop saying things that aren’t true.”

“I’m sorry.”

“Just...just please...tell me something that _is_ true. Something that’s real. Anything, please, Sherlock.”

Sherlock swallows his doubts, and presses a kiss to John’s temple.

“You are not alone.”

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [what it isn't](https://archiveofourown.org/works/9282929) by [TC (thecollective)](https://archiveofourown.org/users/thecollective/pseuds/TC)




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